


Stillness of the Mind

by feeltherain



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: AU Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-02
Updated: 2011-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:18:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feeltherain/pseuds/feeltherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 'A Single Man' AU. It's been eight months since Douglas lost Martin and every day has passed him by in a haze. But today, he has decided, will be different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stillness of the Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 'A Single Man' au fic, as I have mentioned, and so contains spoilers for the film/book so don't read it if you haven't seen or read it and think you are going to (though if you haven't and weren't going to, shame on you 'coz it's really good).
> 
> Disclaimer: The chars are not mine, obviously, but the kidnapping plan is in full swing. I use a fair amount of dialogue from the film which belongs to Tom Ford. Basically I own not a lot and it all belongs to the geniuses John Finnemore, Tom Ford and Christopher Isherwood. I just slammed the two concepts together.
> 
>  **Warning: there is a failry graphic discussion of suicide later in the fic so please be careful**
> 
> A big thank you to [crocodile_eat_u](http://crocodile-eat-u.livejournal.com/) who betaed this thing despite it's length.
> 
> Hope you enjoy and that it does both pieces justice. Thank you for reading.

Mornings are the loathsome invention of a sadistic god. It’s true and I don’t say this purely because I am not a morning person, though that is also true. I don't like the mornings. I can’t bound out of bed, calling upon the lingering memory of elasticity from my tired limbs. I can’t look up at the blinding sun and feel happiness. I can’t arise refreshed and eager to make a start on a new and inevitably long day.

No. My body is old and arthritis is waiting around the corners of shadowed alleys to pounce on parts of it. All I think when I see the sun is that I need to get thicker curtains. And I am never eager to start a new day because all it represents is one day ahead of yesterday and one day behind tomorrow. One day older. One more day older than _he_ will ever be. Which brings me to another reason I despise mornings even more than usual of late:

For the past eight months, waking up has actually hurt.

I never awake as a fully fledged human, I never did. It takes time for me to integrate myself back into society’s chosen role. I wake in the same bed, the same tangle of bed sheets, staring up at the same ceiling with the same sharp pain in my chest that is not a remnant of the cardiac episode last year. I extricate myself, rise, stretch, yawn and shuffle towards the bathroom, as always, and examine myself in the mirror.

There’s not much I see these days. I used to see a new bachelor, eager to put the grim memories of yet another divorce behind him and go out to regain the lost hours of adventure. I used to see the cockiness of a youth, hair slicked back into a style that must have seemed like a good idea at the time. I used to see a child that did its level best to emulate his father, succeeding in all but career choice and matrimonial good fortune. They were there, each little piece of me, fossilised in each skin layer and brought out in the smile I wore. But these days, I just see my reflection staring back with a raised eyebrow and a ‘do get on with it’ expression, arrogant bastard that he is.

After I’ve emptied my bladder and washed the night’s sweat from my skin, I move back into the dark bedroom, still needing thicker curtains, and open the wardrobe to view the crisp dry cleaner’s bag my uniform is housed in. I dress, comb my hair, put on my polished shoes and tuck my cap safely under my arm and I am nearly whole, nearly ready to face people and present to them the interface they expect to interact with. I retrieve some generic sarcasm from the memory stores. I load the wit into my speech centres. And I imbue every molecule with a tightly controlled tranquillity.

I know who I must be and what I must do. I know my name: Douglas Richardson.

 

Surprisingly, I am not even yet entirely Douglas. Though perhaps it is not so much of a surprise, one must never judge a book by its cover after all and at this stage of the morning, the cover is all that is ready. The rest is still tugging to be back under the warm covers. I really am not a morning person.

I prepare breakfast as I usually do, not even pausing to consider what is to be cooked, the predictability of the daily menu already fixed in my mind. And as I turn to make some typically flippant remark, it hits me on a wave of rawness like a wound that is still fresh and bleeding: he’s dead. Martin is dead.

And the remark will remain unsaid and unappreciated even though it was a particularly good one. I ride out the wave of pain knowing from experience that trying to shrug it off only leads to feelings of guilt later and sinking into it results in tears which are infinitely worse.

When it passes I continue with my routine, slowly on its way to completion and, of course, it is when I am still only three quarters myself that the phone rings. I know who it is. I don't care, she shouldn’t be ringing at this time of the morning anyway, she knows that I know we’re flying today. But the deafening tone pointedly persists. And as I turn to look at it, I remember...

 

 _“About bloody time, do you know how worried I’ve been?”_

 _“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m ringing for Douglas Richardson.”_

 _“Oh, sorry I was expecting someone else. Yes, speaking.”_

 _“I’m Annabel Goode from Fitton general hospital. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”_

 _“Oh?”_

 _“Your...your partner, Martin Crieff, he was involved in a car accident. I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”_

 _“What?” I smile. I huff out a laugh._

 _“The roads were slippery with the rain and he went off at a corner, they think.”_

 _No._

 _“Hello?”_

 _A joke._

 _“Hello?”_

 _A mistake._

 _“Mr. Richardson?”_

 _“I’m still here.” Martin is too. Martin. Is. Too._

 _“I’m so sorry. He came into hospital but I’m afraid he didn’t make it. His injuries were too severe. I’m so sorry.”_

 _“I...” Can’t breathe. I can’t...breathe. “W-where...I mean I can be there in...”_

 _“I’m sorry, his sister was listed as his next of kin and... they’ve stipulated that they only want the family near him at this time.”_

 _Still listed...he didn’t change it...of all the things to forget. He can’t be gone. I have to tell him to change his next of kin. I changed mine._

 _“Only his...but I am his family!”_

 _“Not legally...I’m very sorry, I only knew to call you because the sister’s husband thought you should know. I’m so very sorry, Mr. Richardson.”_

 _Stop apologising!_

 _She’s crying._

 _“It’s...it’s not your fault. Th-thank you...f-for calling me. And thank...thank...what was his name?”_

 _“Alan. I will. Goodbye Mr. Richardson.”_

 _I sit in the chair, the comfy chair, my favourite. The lump in my throat gets bigger. I can’t breathe and I pant out short panicked breaths that become sobs as they escape. I close my eyes tightly and a tear rolls down my cheek._

 _When I run outside I don't even bother to close the door. All I can hear is the rain. Not the sound of the cars as they pass or the horns that blare. Not the sound of music from the houses or television sets. Not the sound of my shoes hitting the ground as I keep running, only half sure of where I’m going._

 _Carolyn is at the door seconds after I stagger up to press the bell. The smile she had on her face disappears and she’s on me in the blink of an eye, hands on my cheeks, asking me what happened, trying to keep me steady. I can’t think. I can’t talk. I try to fight her hands away, push at her, throw myself against the wall to feel and hear something. I’m crying so hard but the rain washes it all away._

 _I finally choke out some words I don't even know if they form a sentence, but she seems to understand and those arms are back around my shoulder, in my hair, holding my head still against her neck. She says something but all I can hear is the relentless, earth shattering hammering of the rain. And..._

 

...and the phone is still ringing. Oh for the love of...

“Hello Carolyn.”

“How did you know it was me?” No one has the right to sound as bright as she does first thing in the morning.

“No one else rings me before seven o’clock in the morning.”

“Well I do have to make sure that you get up on time, I know your disdain for any time of the day prior to lunchtime.”

“Oh, nonsense. Breakfast will always have a special place in my heart.”

“Yes; that I don't doubt.”

An uncomfortable pause. She seems to be appraising something, as if technology in the world of Carolyn has advanced and she is analysing a facsimile of me projected into her front room. I think I can hear cartoons in the background, Arthur must be awake then.

“Did you call for a reason, Carolyn?”

“What? Oh no, just checking up on you.”

“I am indebted.”

“Sarcasm will get you far in life Douglas, oh look it already has. I’ll see you at the airfield in an hour or so.”

“See you...”

“Douglas,” she interrupts.

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you come over here tonight? Herc is taking Arthur to see Carmen, for some reason the idiot boy seems to have developed a love for the opera.”

“You shouldn’t have made him go in your place.”

“Perhaps, but it did get me out of three hours of mind-numbing boredom.”

I could tell her that the opera is one of the finest art forms one can witness if performed well, but she would only scoff and tell me I’m getting soft in my old age.

“Carolyn...”

“I’m cooking.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“I’ll have you know that I am the finest cook in the household.”

A pointed silence.

“Not a word.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Carolyn.” I sigh. “I don't have a choice in this, do I?”

“What on earth gave you that impression; of course you have a choice. Seven o’ clock or eight?”

“Seven sounds fine,” I chuckle. The sound is foreign in the empty house. The echoes seem derisive.

“Good.” She starts to sound a bit distant now I’ve sealed my fate and the cartoon noises in the background have stopped. “See you at the airfield in an hour.”

“Goodbye Carolyn.”

“Bye old man.”

I replace the receiver and sigh. That scuppers my plans a little. Though maybe not completely. We shall have to see.

I check the clock and, finding myself with another twenty minutes until I have to leave, retrace the previous nights steps to the room I use as a study. Laid out on the polished wooden desk is everything. And that is shockingly little really. The selected suit is on its hanger suspended from the curtain rail. The letter to my solicitor is in its prim envelope. The letter to Carolyn is next to it in its slightly less starched stationary. The letter to my daughter is with the solicitor’s. She won’t get it until she’s eighteen and hopefully by then she’ll have forgiven me. She forgives so much of me that girl, this will be the last thing.

In the locked top, right hand draw, in true Hollywood style, is my grandfather’s service revolver.

Martin, when he found it, had yelped and dropped the gun. I spent ages afterwards teasing him about how the gun could have fired when it fell. He believed me too until a month later he worked up the courage to probe the draws again and found the box of bullets in the draw underneath. He stopped talking to me for about two hours after that. I never did find out how long he had intended being annoyed. It hadn’t really mattered after the sex.

I won’t take it out just yet. I don't need to see it, I know it’s still there. It would be a strangely specific thing for a burglar to break in and pinch. Especially considering no one but me and...well, no one but me knows of its existence. Illegality, I feel anyway, is in some cases relative. And I think that keeping my grandfather’s revolver as an affectionate memento is perfectly reasonable. My memory lapse at getting an up-to-date licence for the firearm is perhaps more open to debate, particularly a memory lapse of twenty-five years, give or take.

Time’s up, taxi’s here. Shame the trip’s to Manchester really, there are plenty more interesting places I could fly to and from in a day.

Such is life

 

Across the road is a woman called Strunk. Well, that’s her surname and not the happiest one at that. She has two sons and a daughter, all angelic in appearance, with bright eyes and shiny blonde hair; who, at this moment, are racing another small boy along the middle of the road on a scooter, shooting at passersby’s with a plastic machine gun shouting, if I’m not much mistaken, ‘get off my turf’; and hammering an old set of bathroom scales into pained submission. Respectively. The last one I fear may be a terrifying indictment of the effect of today’s celebrity culture on young girls.

Mr. Strunk emerges from the pale blue door, waving his arm behind him and lighting a cigarette. He shouts to Mrs. Strunk, who I presume is somewhere behind him and not just a figurative presence on his shoulder, about keeping the fucking house clean. Ah, there she is; Mrs Strunk stands in the doorway, holding a kitchen knife with an expression I can only describe as murderous, and shouts back, go and get a fucking job-then I can afford to clean the fucking place. Mr Strunk waves his addidas inscribed arm again and takes off down the road. Mrs Strunk brandishes the knife at him then turns her attention to Tom, the racer, who has just fallen off his scooter on a particularly tricky bit of straight line. The exasperation is evident and she marches over to pull him up by his arm, shouting about taking away the bloody scooter if he can’t use it properly, all the while he tearfully clings to his toy.

Mrs Strunk sees the cabbie with his eyebrows up as far as his hairline, and me with my rigid tranquillity, and smiles at us, stretching her unnaturally red lips over her teeth.

“Good morning, Douglas,” she says, sickly sweet.

Then Jennifer, the bane of bathroom scales, crushes a butterfly with a gleeful smile and Christopher all but charges at a suited passerby and proceeds to ask him what he thinks he’s looking at. Mrs Strunk smiles tightly then turns to her little darlings to order them to get their arses in the bloody house now.

As the cab pulls away, it is clear that Mrs Strunk is sorely lacking in appendages as she tugs Tom and Jennifer back into the house, leaving the gangster outside with his machinegun. Christopher tilts the plastic sideways and shoots at the car as it passes him. I raise my hand, fixed in the shape of a gun to match his, and pretend to shoot back. I don't think he notices. The driver accelerates and I’ll never know if Mrs Strunk remembered to fetch Christopher in with the others.

 

The airfield is busy this morning and there is no earthly reason why. Alright, apparently a Virgin airlines flight had to divert here because of mechanical problems but that’s beside the point. There are too many people roaming around the place and too many young men with four stripes on their cuffs and enough gold braid to hang themselves with on their caps. They shouldn’t be here.

“Douglas.”

Oh God it’s Carl. Sometimes I do wonder about that man and his seemingly endless pessimism about everything in existence. His latest fear seems to be nuclear power, the evils of. I’m surprised he hasn’t built a bloody shelter.

“I’ve had a shelter commissioned.”

Oh for God’s sake.

“You can’t be too careful these days, Douglas. Look at Japan, that could happen here. Do you know how many power stations Britain has?”

Do you think a shelter is going to help in the case of a nuclear meltdown?

“Did you even read the information I printed off for you?”

“I have to admit, Carl, I didn’t. I’ve had more pressing demands on my time.” Like sitting in my large comfy chair. While drinking tea, now that was a really busy day.

“Douglas, the energy crisis will only get worse, right now the government’s only viable option is nuclear power until they find a way to make the renewable sources more efficient and cost effective. Surely you see how that’ll mean more power stations and so more chances of an accident.”

There is never a point in human history when we aren’t worried about something.

“So, I had this shelter commissioned.”

What is this world war two?

“Just a little hideaway, just in case. I’m even having the outside landscaped so people won’t know it’s there.”

I suppose you’ll be building one to protect yourself against increased interest rates and unemployment next.

“And with the riots you’ve seen on the news, this will be perfect to protect the family in the event that unrest breaks out again.”

Oh yes, you can sit safely in your own concrete world while the track-suited louts loot your house.

“I just thought I could recommend the builders. Of course I trust you to keep this to yourself, I don't want anyone else to find out. Once they know it’s there, they’ll come running if the balloon goes up and try to force their way in.”

Anyone would think we were in the middle of the Cuban missile crisis.

“There’ll be no time for sentiment, Douglas, if the worst does happen.”

There’s a small group of stewardesses over there. Their red uniforms are impossibly bright in the light of the sun, glowing like their golden hair. Their name badges glitter and they walk, no, they glide so smoothly on their long shapely legs even though they are in an animated conversation with each other and their rose red lips are tilted in sunny smiles and giggles. They are completely oblivious to me and my boredom. And suddenly, it strikes me how ridiculous it is.

“Well, Carl,” I say frankly. “I’m not sure that a world without time for sentiment is a world I want to live in. Now you must excuse me, I think I hear Carolyn calling.”

 

“Morning Douglas.”

I hear it every time I’m here, every time for the past five months and it still gets me. His voice, it is so different from Martin’s, smoother, deeper but less animated, less resigned misery, less character. Sometimes I still hear it as his voice. In a variety of tones seemingly depending on how I feel that morning. I grunt something at him as usual and he just smiles wanly, probably wondering when I’ll get over the hostility.

My log books are on my desk, as they have been for the past few weeks, along with several other bits of paperwork I haven’t had to do for years. I glare meaningfully from my in tray to him.

“I’m not doing your paperwork anymore Douglas,” he says plainly. “I accepted it for the first few months because under the circumstances I thought it was only fair, but I think now you really need to do the stuff.”

I look down at the tray with mild disgust.

“It’s not so bad, lifting a pen and signing a few bits of paper isn’t exactly taxing. You don't even really need to read them, I hardly do.”

Blasphemy! I look over to him and he’s smirking. It’s as if he knows that Martin would have a fit to hear that from an airline Captain. Ridiculous thought. He raises an eyebrow at me, lazily scans the form in front of him then scribbles his name and tosses it into the out tray. I sit down at my desk and ponder.

I don’t like that he doesn't fill in the log books for me. I don't like that he has straight, black hair. I don't like that his voice has a slight Irish lilt. I don't like that his physique is slight. I don't like that he suits his uniform. I don't like that his eyes are green instead of a soft blue-grey, like the sky clearing after a storm. There is a great long list of things that I don't like about Mark, but I can’t say that I don't like him. I do like him. He’s a very good, very capable, very polite young man and I feel...I feel like it’s too soon when really it isn’t. I feel like sighing every time I see him and screaming at him to get out of _his_ chair. I can feel a tug at my heart that is not a remnant of the cardiac episode last year.

Eight months have passed, five since he came here and that dull sense of betrayal I had when I first played a word game with Mark still resonates, so I don't do it anymore. He’s a good man, a bright boy if you ignore the number of exam failures, and even that was less than Martin, but he’ll go far and Martin never will. And I’m not entirely sure what to do with this lapse in the universe’s justice system.

I begin to fill out the forms, reading them twice, thoroughly, and once they’re done I turn my attention to my log book and fill out all the back days that have been missed. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Mark watching me. His papers were filled and filed long ago and now he just stares. If my eyes aren’t mistaken, his brows are furrowed in a frown. Entirely foolish, I’m doing what he wanted me to after all. But he keeps staring and I notice too Arthur’s slightly shocked ‘wow’ when he sees me and his suspicious ‘brilliant’ when Mark tells him what I’m doing. Carolyn does a double take and then there’s something in her eyes too. Why can’t people mind their own business?

 

“Douglas?”

We’re going to the plane in a few minutes, if I ignore him maybe he’ll go away. Then he’ll just try and talk to me on the flight. Though that is a contemplative tone he has, it might be a subject he won’t want to broach in front of Mark. Then I can run off quickly after the flight. Then I’ll have just spent my last flight in complete silence.

“What Arthur?”

“Do you think that as a nation we’re screwed?”

“Screwed? Interesting choice of word. Where did you get that idea from?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular, just something I was thinking about.”

Dirk, Carl probably, one of the ground staff anyway.

“It’s just that...we’re run by idiots...”

Pot, kettle, black...

“I suppose...”

“We have no industry to speak of, our economy’s...” he looks around then lowers his voice, “Buggered.”

“Yes...” But so is everyone else’s.

“And we don't have any hope.”

I look up from my log book and here he is, a face etched with uncertainty and the childlike yearning to be contradicted, to be told that it’s all alright really and those nasty boys were just teasing him when they said those things.

“I don't think that’s true.”

“No?”

“No.”

His eyes light up a little with hopefulness and there it is: the spark that’s within us all, but no one else except Arthur ever lets it show.

“No, I don't think we have no hope. I think really that’s the only thing we have.”

He shifts a little, settling down in his seat to listen like a five year old at story time.

“Think about our world today. It’s so full of fear. The fear that we’ll go to work tomorrow and leave unemployed. The fear that we’ll be attacked in the street for no other reason than that we were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The fear that a small group of people who feel that they are acting in the name of their God will come to our country and destroy it. The fear that our governments are spying on us. The fear that Rupert Murdoch will soon own the world, though that probably is a real fear.”

He looks a little blank.

“The fear that no one will listen to us or care what we have to say. We still fear growing old and being shoved in a state managed home that will close within a year of us moving there. We fear being alone. Everyone has so much fear welling up inside them, voicing doubts they barely knew they had. But hope...hope is the thing that keeps them from succumbing. Hope keeps people’s heads above water, the hope that one day it will be better and that if they gave up now they’d miss it.

“Economically we may struggle, emotionally we may be dying, socially we may be inept but we are never without hope. It’s part of being a human and very much part of being English. Underneath the misery, the cynical world view, the endless complaining, we have an unyielding hope that one day it will be our day.”

“You really believe that, Douglas?”

“Yes, I do.”

His face lights up in a sunny grin.

“Brilliant, I knew Carl was wrong. Thanks Douglas. Oh and mum said ‘if you don't get on that plane in the next five minutes, she’s going to do something unspeakable with knives. And that was four minutes ago come to think about it.”

“Yes, thank you Arthur.”

 

“Post take-off checks complete.”

Lazily I think. And his walk around took two minutes, that’s not even a bloody jog round. More like a sprint.

“Surprising how difficult this old thing is to get in the air isn’t it? With bits constantly falling off her, you wouldn’t think it would be so difficult.”

“Well usually we find that ferrying a plane full of executives balances out the reduced weight.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he says pensively.

In the air over England all you can see is green and grey. Fields as far as the eye can see, every shade of green imaginable. Then the dust coloured farm land with bundles dotted around and the occasional garish tractor or combine. Hedgerows, cows, sheep, horses sometimes. As far as the eye can see.

Then you get the industry rising from the earth like sharp needles, gun metal grey and uniform, spewing smoke into the dark clouds. The cities, the towns, power plants, industrial estates, there’s so much of it now. But the green was here first and it still clings to the island it once owned, welcoming the little villages that are nearly the same colour as the farms.

Is it stupid so be so sentimental about this place? Up here it’s so peaceful, all you can hear is the background whir from Gerti’s engines, the passenger’s chatter, Arthur laughing. It’s life but it’s not life. It’s a simplified version, rose tinted and nostalgic. Up here even the industrial scars suit England.

“At least the weather’s clear,” he says.

When I don't respond, he stops trying.

 

When we touch down in Fitton with the raucous singing of the pissed executives finally silenced by a landing that was much bumpier than necessary and not mine, nothing has changed.

“So then...” Mark says as he swings his bag on his back and we go to door.

“What?”

We pause and then he sighs and he leaves.

I walk out a few minutes later in a bit of a daze, dwelling on nothing in particular, watching the sun set across the airfield, the light bounce off the aeroplanes. I look back at Gerti and despite all the complaints about the unreliable instrument readings, the bits that keep falling off, the fact that the flight deck is now held together purely by prayers, gaffer tape and one screw, I wouldn’t have her any other way. That was always the problem with the Air England jets, there was no character to them. You never knew which one you were going to fly with on any given trip and so there was no chance to get to know it. Shame really.

The portacabin is dark now. Arthur and Carolyn must have left too. I’m the only one here. It seems that Arthur forgot to lock the door again. There it is. Even now his desk is perfectly polished. I remember when I used to wait in my car for hours, planning to drive past him as he left and casually offer him a lift home, that was before we moved in together, obviously, and I’d finally grow restless and investigate his whereabouts. He’d always be here. Sat right in that chair, lamp on, forehead in one hand, pen in the other, finishing off the day’s paperwork.

We all began to take his secretarial role for granted after a while, even Carolyn. But I remember one day that I went to find him and he was sat there and I pulled him away to curl up with me on the world worn sofa. He started laughing, just soft, little laughs, and he wouldn’t tell me why. Eventually, of course, I tickled it out of him and he told me that no matter how many hours he stayed behind here and how loud or cold or busy his flat was, thinking of moments like this, when we could just sit together and be peaceful, they always made it all worth it.

I asked him to move in with me that night.

“Douglas?”

“Bloody hell Arthur, how long have you been there?”

“Not long, I was just thinking.”

Wonders will never cease.

“I see. About anything in particular?”

“No...well...sort of. Douglas, why don’t you always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you did before the flight, about fear and hope, all philosophical.”

“I don't think it goes down very well with most people.”

“Well I thought it was interesting.”

I sit down at my desk, shoving the log book to one side.

“Douglas...” he begins. “I admire you.”

“Really?” I say with disinterest.

“Yeah. All that stuff you said on the flight, it all makes so much sense. The people I talk to, all they do is complain about how crap everything is. Or they look at me like they have more to say but they don't think I’ll understand.”

“Complaining gets us nowhere. At the end of it the situation is still the same and all we are is drained.”

There’s a pause and as I give Arthur a sideways glance I see that he’s biting his lip. Martin used to do that. He used to hold the left side of his bottom lip pinned between his pearly teeth and roll rhythmically from side to side. Arthur is different, he bites the middle of his bottom lip and holds it perfectly still, eyes full of concentration.

“Do you ever,” he starts somewhat nervously. “Do you ever think about drinking again? Just to forget how much life really scares you?”

I almost laugh at him, but I doubt in this case that would be particularly appreciated.

“It’s been must be around twenty years now, Arthur, since I last had a drink.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I remember once when I was completely smashed, I got it into my head to shave one of my eyebrows off.”

“Really?” he splutters with a laugh.

“Yes, the Mrs. Richardson of the time thought it was hilarious, initially.”

“Is that why you stopped?”

“No. That was...that was a different matter.”

“Oh. You never thought of...going back to it then? Or trying something a little bit...”

“Arthur?” I say somewhat shocked. “Are you thinking about drugs?”

“No! Well....no...I mean...well...sometimes the boys at my old school used to and...have you ever?”

“Not really, I tried LSD once and I can safely say never again.”

“Really? I found LSD to be very relaxing.”

Typical that the powers of LSD would be defeated by the boundless, energetic optimism of Arthur.

“Relaxing? I was buzzing after I took it and after I went home I spent three hours examining the pattern on the wedding china.”

“That isn’t what people traditionally do on LSD,” he giggles. “Not that I know very much about it. Sometimes it helps to keep me going.”

“LSD?”

“Sometimes. Chocolate milk mostly though. Sometimes it feels like fear builds up and up until it’s choking me, do you...do you know what I mean?”

“Yes. I know what you mean.”

“You do? And it’s not like I can really talk to anyone about it, not to any of the people I know.”

“Not Carolyn?”

“Mum? Nah, she’s not afraid of anything.”

“Everyone’s afraid of something, Arthur.”

“Yeah? What are you afraid of?”

“Me? Flying.”

He looks at me for a moment with a startled and slightly awed expression.

“I’m joking, Arthur.”

“Oh right. I was going to say Douglas, how can you be a pilot when you’re afraid to fly?”

I don't say anything. Arthur is smiling and laughing to himself as the clock on the wall ticks.

“Why are you here by the way, did you forget something?”

“Hm? No, I was passing on the way to my car.”

“What? So you stayed to talk to me?”

“Something like that.”

“Really?” he asks with a happy smile. “I think that deserves a reward.”

He leaps up and opens a desk draw, pulling out three toblerones, probably only a fraction of his collection, white, dark and a fruit and nut one.

“Take your pick.”

I pick up the white one and break off a bit. He regards me critically.

“White eh?” he says in his best psychiatrist voice. “I had you pegged more as a dark chocolate person.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“I don’t know, something more classical about it, more sophisticated.”

“Right.” I don't quite know how to reply to that. “What did you pick then?”

“Fruit and nut of course.”

Of course.

 

The door to the Lexus closes with a muffled slam and I run my hand over the dashboard. I fought tooth and nail for this car in the divorce, in two divorces actually, and now I’m leaving her behind. If this were an American film, my gun would be in the glove compartment. I would probably press a button, it would fall open and the gun would fall with it, just to the edge of the lid. Then I would take it in hand, check it was loaded, run my fingers lovingly over it’s cool metal, place it to my head and...

“Douglas?”

“Bloody...for God’s sake Arthur, will you stop doing that.”

“Sorry, Douglas. It’s just...well...are you going somewhere?”

“That is why people usually get in their cars, yes.”

“No, I mean...you did your log book.”

“It’s not a crime,” I retort testily.

“Well no, but you never do it.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Yeah but the first time would have been this morning when you did it and now you’ve done it again, that’s twice in one day.”

Good grasp of basic maths there.

“And you never even do it once if you don't have to and this morning you more or less had to, but just now you didn’t have to, you could have left until Thursday morning before we fly to Cape Town, but you didn’t and the only reason you would do that is...is if you’re not planning on being here on Thursday and there’s nothing on the wall chart, I checked, so...are you going somewhere?”

I can hear the cogs screaming in pain.

“Arthur...” I pause. “What is it you really want to say?”

“Well...I was just thinking about Skip,” I wince. “And Mark and how Mark is never going to replace Skip, ever, we all know that.”

“And?”

“And that we all know you’re really sad, we are too, but...maybe you should talk to Mark a bit more. Try and get to know him, he’s brilliant, really, not as brilliant as Skip was, but...”

“Arthur...”

“He’s been here for five months and you still haven’t really talked to him and mum’s been saying that you’re just being belligerent in your old age, but she didn’t go on that course in Ipswich...”

That bloody course.

“...and so it’s like I told her, you just can’t let yourself talk to Mark because he might turn out to be really nice and you might like him and then you wouldn’t be thinking about Skip and when you do think about him again you’d feel bad.”

I stare at him in disbelief. How can he..?

“But I don't think you need to worry about that, Douglas, this is what I’m saying. Skip wouldn’t want you to be sad all the time, would he?”

I shake my head, feeling somewhat bemused.

“So why don’t you talk to Mark, go out for a drink, maybe, he likes doing that he says. I think you could use a friend Douglas, and while I’m always here and mum is too...Mark is brilliant too.”

“Really?” I say weakly.

“Yeah.”

“Right well...lovely idea though that is...I’m...late.” I turn the ignition key, hear the purr of my Lexus. “Thank you, though, Arthur.”

He beams and waves at me as I drive away.

 

On the way home Carolyn calls. I answer, even without one of the stupid Bluetooth headsets. Martin would wrestle the phone from my hand and take the call himself when this happened, then scold me for letting belligerence and technophobia endanger my life. I just mentioned the list of things wrong with his van and he shut up for a while. I never meant anything by it.

“Douglas, it’s Carolyn.”

“You don't say,” I mutter. I think she hears. She ignores it in any case.

“Could you pop out and get some gin before you come round? I seem to have run out.”

“How remiss of you.”

“It wasn’t me oh sarcastic pilot, it was Arthur and one of his pony club girls. She looked terrible the next morning. Arthur was as bright as usual, it always makes me chuckle. Now will you get me some or not?”

“Yes of course I will. Any particular kind?”

“Anything but Gordon’s. I can’t get the image of Gordon Ramsey being bathed in gin out of my head and there’s no point drinking if you already feel nauseous.”

“Fair enough. I’ll see you later Carolyn.”

“Seven o’clock Douglas, I know what you’re like with time keeping.”

“Yes, yes. Goodbye.”

I hang up and chuck the phone into the passenger seat. I don't realise I’ve done it until a mile or so down the road. I look over at it and it blinks back with the orange glare of a street lamp. Such a careless gesture that I made for years before I even knew him. I imagine a yelp of surprise and an indignant ‘hey’. Then there’s a quip about reactions times on the tip of my tongue that I say in my head.

Another mile down the road I pick up my phone and put it in the compartment by the handbrake.

 

I have one more errand I need to run, not including Carolyn’s task. She can’t resist bossing people about can she, even outside work. Turn left at this crossroad. It’s at my safety deposit box. I keep all the important things in there, as well as some papers my solicitor might need. No one knows about it, not even Martin. We all have to have some secrets.

Ah, the little box, velvet covered as is the tradition. Well worn now. My father’s ring. I never knew why he left it to me, with that somewhat pointed message in the will. I wonder if he’d have liked Martin.

Yes, those look like the papers, I pick them up, tuck them in my jacket pocket and...I’d forgotten I had this. A photo of Martin taken while he was completely oblivious. We were in Majorca I think, stuck there waiting for a client who needed a longer stay for business. I managed to persuade him to tear himself away from sitting perpendicular at the hotel, waiting for the call and we went to the beach at sunset, when it was cooler.

He has his legs tucked in close to his chest but his shirt is open and you just see a slither of pale abdomen. His head rests on his knees. His eyes are closed and on his face is a look of utter bliss. His curls are fluttering in a breeze and for a moment I think I can feel it. I close my eyes and I can feel that breeze and I can smell the sea air...

 

 _“So when did you meet Carolyn?”_

 _“At my job interview, obviously.”_

 _“Really?”_

 _“Yes. What did you think we’d been friends for years and suddenly she finds herself in need of a pilot at the same time I find myself in need of a job?”_

 _“Well, I always wondered...you two seem...close.”_

 _“Close? Not quite the word I’d choose. You forget, dear sir, that I’ve been at this highly reputable charter airdot far longer than you.”_

 _“Yeah. Yeah I suppose I do sometimes. What was it like?”_

 _“The interview? I suppose like a game of chess would be the best way to describe it. Or a sparring match.”_

 _“You know I can just imagine it.”_

 _“Oh?”_

 _“Both of you trying to out sarcasm each other to cover the fact that you both know you’re going to leave the building employed.”_

 _“Oh you’d be surprised.”_

 _“What do you mean?”_

 _“I had to do a considerable amount more to persuade her than that.”_

 _“Really?”_

 _“Yes, although you are right about the sarcasm, though we both prefer to call it wit.”_

 _“Why did you have to convince her?”_

 _“An ex-alcoholic who got fired for smuggling? I wonder.”_

 _“But still...she must have seen that you were a good pilot, your record.”_

 _“Yes, she did. She also saw my second divorce and my willingness to accept lower than befitting pay arrangements.”_

 _“No...”_

 _“What?”_

 _“I don't believe it.”_

 _“What?”_

 _“Carolyn out-negotiated you too.”_

 _“Now, Martin...”_

 _“She did! That is fantastic, she actually beat you at your own game.”_

 _“Martin...”_

 _“Not so high and mighty now Mr. Richardson. Now I know you’re shameful secret.”_

 _“What shameful secret?”_

 _“Beaten in a battle of wills...by a woman.”_

 _“Oh come on...”_

 _“Sherlock Holmes losing to Irene Adler, I love this.”_

 _“Oh she was hardly Irene Adler.”_

 _“No?”_

 _“No. Absolutely not. More like Irene Adler’s great aunt.”_

 _“Yes, I suppose she’d have to be considerably younger, with darker hair and bigger assets to attract you.”_

 _“I’m not dignifying that with a response.”_

 _“Which is why I’ve always wondered why.”_

 _“Why what?”_

 _“Why you are here...with me and my...slightly less considerable assets.”_

 _“What you lack up top you certainly make up for down below, my boy.”_

 _“You have a one track mind.”_

 _“You started on this track, not me.”_

 _“Why didn’t you go out and find a leggy blonde then? After Helena?”_

 _“Because I wanted love. And because I fell in love with you.”_

 

I tuck the photo in my jacket pocket and leave with the smell of Martin’s sun warm skin.

 

It’s one step up from their own brand but I consider that my personal revenge. Cheap gin gets people drunk faster too, if I can persuade her to drink it through a straw she’ll be unconscious on the floor by nine and I’ll be home by half past. Job done.

Now the last thing...

“Shit.”

“Sorry.”

I look up. He’s young, can’t be much older than twenty. But his eyes are much older. He glances up briefly then lowers his eyes to the ground where the gin soaks into the pavement, broken glass and a packet of cigarettes that I certainly didn’t buy. Must be his.

“Sorry,” he says again. I can’t place his accent.

“My fault,” I hear myself murmur. I’m still looking at him, following the curve of his right eye, the bare hint of eyeliner. “The floor’s the best place for it really.” He smiles, pale lips stretching, so smooth, no cracks at all. “Let me get you some more.”

“No, no I couldn’t...”

“Please, I insist.”

More gin, slightly better brand than the last bottle, and a packet of twenty Marlboro lights. Conventional cigarette choice. I hand them to him as we walk out.

“Would you like one?” I hear when I’m heading towards the car. When I turn to look at him he’s opened the packet and it’s extended towards me, twenty perfect circles all neatly lined up with a smooth, filed nail hovering above them. I haven’t smoked in years.

“No, thank you.” But today is... “Actually yes, why not, thank you.”

He pushes the packet closer to me and I extract one, watching the other cigarettes crowd in to hide the loose shards of tobacco at the bottom. He takes one himself and with a flick of the wrist, places it between his pouting lips. I follow suit. He pulls a blue plastic lighter from his pocket, lights mine for me then lights his. He closes two fingers around it, pulling it away from his lips as they open and smoke swirls out of his mouth. He closes his lips into an ‘o’, sighs out a long stream of wispy smoke and then they close together.

“Adam.”

“What?”

“You asked me my name. You alright?”

“Yes...yes I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

He nods and takes another drag from his cigarette. I try to do the same but the years of tobacco abstinence makes the once comforting burn painful. I turn away to cough and when I look back he’s smiling.

When the cigarette is finished and the smoke no longer irritates the back of my throat, I stamp the remains into the ground. He does the same. I push a twenty pound note into his hand.

“Thank you.”

And I walk off to my car.

I click the unlock button on the keys, watch the taillights blink and open the door. Adam appears and begins to open the passenger door. He must have followed me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Aren’t we going somewhere?”

“What?”

“I don't usually get in client’s cars, you know.”

“No. Thank you, but no.”

He frowns at me then turns to the smoke of industry corrupting the clouds in the sky. There’s a factory fairly nearby, though what they manufacture I don't know, and the smoke from the chimneys spills into the air in subtle shapes, like it’s desperately trying to prove it can be as acceptable to the sky as the clouds are. In the setting sun where the sky is a fiery red, the smoke looks ferocious like it’s billowing from the nostrils of a monstrous dragon that lies wounded on the floor, coloured a dull grey as camouflage.

“Incredible.”

“I’ve never seen the smoke look like that.”

“Sometimes awful things have their own kind of beauty.”

I look at him again and he looks so young, but that age built cynicism and understanding of the world around him is as apparent in his speech as in his dark eyes.

“Could I have another cigarette?”

“Sure,” he says, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

He closes the door, walks around the car and perches on the bonnet. Normally I would leap protectively to the car, pushing away anyone who would dare hurt her paintwork, but with this boy I strangely don't care, in fact I close my door with an uncharacteristic slam and lean next to him. He lights our cigarettes and we stand watching the dragon belch out more flame red smoke as we blow out our meagre contributions to its cause.

“You-uh...you’re sure you don't wanna go for a drive?”

“I’m sure.” I inhale again, the warm comfort back like it never left. “Where are you from?”

“Glasgow.”

“Really?” So that’s what the accent is. “What brings you this far south?”

“Ah,” he groans with a look of mild embarrassment. “The usual story, you know. Crap life back home, came down here to find a better one. Found a guy instead who told me I was cute, he could get me an agent, then it turned out having an accent is more of a hindrance than you’d think. So here I am.”

“Turning tricks.”

“If you like.”

“What was home like?”

“Stepdad.”

“I see. You’re mother still in Glasgow?”

“I think so, haven’t really heard from her. The new man was from Birmingham though, so they may have moved down there. She used to be a hairdresser.”

“Used to?”

“Well I mean she still was when I left but...she cut my hair before I went, insisted that if I wouldn’t take any money she would do that for me. Do you like it? She said it made me look like Justin Beiber.”

“I’m not entirely sure that’s a look you want to emulate.”

“No, you’re probably right. I don't think I have the fringe for it anyway.”

“Thank God.”

“You know, no one has ever picked me up without wanting something.”

“Did I pick you up? I rather think you picked me up.”

“Either way.”

“Today is...it’s a sort of a serious day for me.”

“Oh? What could be so serious for someone like you?”

“Just...trying to get over an old love I suppose.”

“You know my mum used to say that lovers are like buses.”

“Wait your whole life for one and then they all come at once?”

“There’ll be another one along in a minute.”

“She sounds sensible, your mother.” I stamp out the remnants of the cigarette.

“Yeah, she is.”

We both pause and stare at each other a little sadly. This boy with eyes too old for him will go back into the world after I leave, won’t contact his mother in Glasgow or Birmingham, will go back to wherever he lives and then leave it till tomorrow to find more men to go for drives with.

“I have to go.”

“Maybe all you need is someone to like you.”

“Someone like you?” I ask, walking back round to the driver’s door.

“Maybe. What do you think?”

“Thank you, but I’m going away.”

He nods his head and steps back from the car. As I drive off, he lights another cigarette and waves after me. I watch him in the rear-view mirror until he disappears. His eyes never leave my car. It’s foolish but I think of the sky as I drive, the smoke from the chimneys. I think about fire and I imagine stark red flames swallowing him up and the billowing clouds of black smoke from his cigarette that burns as he does.

 

Back home now.

Everything is in order.

There’s nothing more for me to do.

Just show my face at Carolyn’s, eat whatever she’s cooked, watch her drink G and T after G and T and go home to this.

It’s cold in my hand, the gun. I had to take it out, all the way home I kept thinking about it and about masked men breaking in and making a beeline for my desk. But that didn’t happen. It’s still here. In my hand. Cold. Heavy.

I mean, what am I as I sit here? A man on the edge? A man crying out for help? Or am I just a man who has come to terms with the gun in his hand and the path of the bullet through his brain?

That’s a point actually. What path will it take? Do I lay the barrel against my temple, run the risk of the bullet passing through taking the eyes with it but ultimately not much else? I’ve heard stories. What about the mouth then? But even then if it’s too high or too low fatality isn’t certain. Perhaps that aspect is all relative, the likelihood of any aid coming within the requisite time is slim. But then how loud is this thing?

Alright so ignoring the angle and location of the bullet path, the location of death. Hmm. Wherever I do this, there will be a mess. Do I want to die in bed? What if I did it inside something? There should be an old sleeping back somewhere. Though who wants to die in a something confining, dark and hot? Mind you we were pretty much born that way. But still it would be a grizzly sight for anyone to behold, unzipping a sleeping back to find me...like that. Would probably put them off camping. I wonder if I can engineer it so a camping enthusiast finds me, do the whole world a favour. No, no I’m not that cruel.

So then, bedroom is out. Bathroom? The shower is fairly spacious. Certain Sunday mornings have shown that the shower is very spacious indeed. That way the drain will surely get rid of most of the mess. But even then, do I stand? Fly backwards into the shower, probably breaking it, then slide down the wall with a screech like nails on a blackboard? Sitting down? That might be better. I wonder if I would put someone off showers. Can’t do more than Psycho already did.

Maybe I’ll do what feels right. You can over think these things.

I glance at the clock on the coffee table that lies past the sofa...

 

 _The last of the credits roll with fading music and the loud blare of the menu theme comes on the screen._

 _“You’re turn to choose the film.”_

 _“Not a chance, this one was mine, it’s your turn.”_

 _“I would have thought you’d welcome the chance to have another choice, Martin, rare an occasion as it is.”_

 _“You only want me to pick so you don't have to get up. So no, it’s your turn.”_

 _I sigh exaggeratedly._

 _“Still your turn.”_

 _“Fine, I’m putting The Godfather on then.”_

 _“Oh come on, Douglas,” he whines._

 _“Oh, yes? And what high brow work of cinema would you have on then. Anything involving planes I suppose.”_

 _“No actually,” he says triumphantly. “I was going to suggest Little Miss Sunshine”_

 _I raise an eyebrow._

 _“Oh don’t look so smug. And go put a film on, but not The Godfather.”_

 _“Some people are so picky. You know it’s very difficult to move when you’re lying on top of me.”_

 _He wriggles a bit as he turns to look up at me._

 _“I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”_

 _Very likely at this rate. He smirks. When did he become a mind reader?_

 _The dog on the carpet barks in his sleep. Martin’s eyes fly to him and the smirk softens beautifully to a wan smile._

 _“The life he has,” he says wistfully._

 _“What living all day with the elderly and slightly senile Mrs. McDonald?”_

 _“No,” he chuckles.”But look at him.”_

 _“Hmm?”_

 _“I mean yesterday, when I went to get him, Mrs. McDonald was talking to Susan with Christopher...”_

 _“The trainee gangster?”_

 _“That’s the one, apparently he goes by the name of Big C now.” I snort. “Yes, I know. But anyway, Susan was having a go at Mrs. McDonald for the noise her TV was making, how Mrs. M was keeping quiet about hypocrisy I’ll never know, and he,” he points lazily at the sleeping dog, “goes right up to Christopher, cocks his legs and pees all over him.” I laugh heartily. “Of course Mrs. M starts telling him off, apologising profusely and Susan starts swearing and Christopher is screaming but it’s all I can do to keep myself from laughing. Mrs. M and I shared a good laugh when the other two were gone before she handed me the lead and a dog who was very pleased with himself.”_

 _“Wonderful,” I say, still laughing._

 _“It was perfect, I wish you’d have seen it. Though you would probably just have burst out laughing and we do not want any more problems with the Strunks.”_

 _“Any problems we have with that family are purely...”_

 _“Please Douglas do not finish that sentence.”_

 _I give him a look and he rolls his eyes, then settles his head back down on my chest, watching the dog kick his legs in a dream chase._

 _“You should take a lesson from him,” I say. “He doesn't stay up all night worrying.”_

 _“He has us both wrapped around his paw and we’re only dog-sitting,” Martin agrees with an awed tone. I can’t help feeling he’s missed the point._

 _“Yep, that’s what pets are, very sophisticated parasites.”_

 _“Is that why you won’t let us get one of our own.”_

 _“That and the fact that we can be called away at minutes’ notice by Scrooge McDuck air.”_

 _“I suppose,” he says sadly. “He really lives in the moment though doesn't he?”_

 _I look over to him kicking his legs and growling. I don't say anything._

 _“Like now, what could be better than this, safe on the sofa with you, arguing about films? If I died now, I think I’d be alright with it.”_

 _I look at the top of his head with mild horror, imagining a world where there isn’t a familiar and comforting warmth on my chest while I avoid deciding what film to put on next._

 _“Well it wouldn’t be alright with me,” I say. “So shut up and go and choose a film.”_

 _“Little Miss Sunshine?” he asks softly looking up at me with smiling eyes._

 _“If it’ll make you happy.”_

 _He smiles properly then pushes himself up to kiss me on the nose. My hand snakes up his back and pushes him down until our lips meet. After a moment of brief indulgence, he pulls away with a languid, honest smile I rarely see on him, and he hoists himself up and off the sofa, leaving the air above me cooling uncomfortably._

 _“Hello you,” he says, high pitched to the dog who’s just lifted its head. “Did I wake you up?”_

...it says it’s half past six. Should probably get going soon. I sigh deeply and run a hand through my hair. As I leave I pass the open door to the study, see the suit caught in a small strip of light and the neat desk, everything perfectly laid out in straight, even lines, gun back in the drawer.

 

“About time.”

“Hello to you too, Carolyn. Lovely to see you again.”

She smirks at me. It’s a strange smirk, absent of the usual sarcasm and sense of superiority with which she condescends expertly and makes it perfectly clear that she is to be obeyed. On pain of sharp knives. The possibility that she was an assassin in a former life is one that has not been discounted by anyone who knows her. But instead, in this smirk there is a knowingness, a gentleness, a sense that she’s trying to shield me from something. It’s bloody irritating.

“Come in then, sour face, Arthur’s already gone with Herc humming some unknown tune as he went and I distinctly saw Herc grimace.”

“Ah, so you’re in good spirits then.”

“Precisely. And I’ll be in even better spirits when you pour the gin out. Make mine a G and T and I’ll check on the food, off you trot.”

“Yes, oh mighty alpha dog.”

She smirks again and we traipse into the kitchen. I haven’t been here in a very long time, even when I was here last I didn’t see the kitchen. It’s lavish, modern but homely. I think that last might be the impression gleaned from the home made fridge magnets in the shape of trains and planes and the various cartoon stickers adorning every free work surface. Some of them are from cartoons that I swear only aired for the first time a couple of years ago.

Carolyn strides over to the stove and stirs something in a pot that bubbles ominously. The words ‘hubble, bubble, toil and trouble’ spring to mind and I pour the gin into a waiting glass to cover my smile.

“I don't know what you’re giggling at, you have to eat it too.”

Has everyone become psychic recently? If so, it’s completely unfair that I should be left out of this sudden doling out of supernatural powers.

I drop the drink, not from a very great height, next to Carolyn as she stirs. Without taking her eyes off the hob, she picks up the drink, takes a hearty swig and puts the glass back down with only the olive remaining, shaking with terror.

“Same again,” she says, giving no indication that the drink even so much unsteadied a hair on her head. “And there’s some orange juice or apple juice or some such poison in the fridge. There’s probably other things around here too, help yourself.”

Deciding, I think wisely, not to take the jibe to heart, I pour another gin out, adjusting the ratio of gin to tonic water slightly more in the favour of the tonic. I settle for the orange and lean against the work surface to watch her work.

There are very few times when one will see Carolyn being maternal. Even though her son works with her everyday and indeed still lives with her, her demeanour has always been on the cold side. She calls it practical and businesslike, the people who work for her call it scary. But, just rarely, just occasionally, she looks at Arthur, at all of us, with something other than frustration and outright despair. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it love, I wouldn’t even go so far as to call it affection, tolerance maybe. I suppose it’s the sort of look people in care homes get when they’ve been around a problem patient for long enough. A look that says you have ceased to be completely annoying, strayed into endearing and you should quit while you’re ahead.

Interestingly, in her own home, with one and a half gin and tonics inside her, keeping one eye on the bubbling point on the stove and the other on me, she does seem maternal. She smiles more freely than I’ve seen her in a long time and I think I understand now. Arthur never seems hurt by Carolyn’s barbs and we always thought it was because he’s...well because he’s Arthur. But maybe it’s because every day he sees this Carolyn and he sees the transition from mum to Carolyn Knapp-Shappy, CEO of MJN. If that’s true, I think he’s one of the luckiest of us all.

“What are you staring at?” she says, perfectly steady in speech and hand as she pours herself another drink. I think the alcohol ratio of my last has relieved me of bartender duties for tonight.

“Just wondering if you added the eye of newt.”

“Nope, fresh out, I doubled the toe of frog instead.”

She raises an eyebrow and I smile. I’ll miss this.

“You know,” she continues, “I’ve made a couple of early New Year’s resolutions.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She sips her drink again. “Never again will I allow my ex-husband near my jet, my crew, my son or myself, no matter how dire our situation.”

We both pause. She examines, testing my reactions.

“Bit short-sighted isn’t it?” I say carefully. Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Chances are Gerti will need another new engine at some point and if we can get it and have it fitted for free, well...”

She laughs.

“Fair point, but my resolution stands. Lightning never strikes the same place twice after all.”

“True, true. And the other?”

“The other what?”

“Resolution.”

“Oh of course.” She pauses again. She examines me again. “To make MJN profitable,” she says, but her eyes never leave mine. She’s lying.

I pick up my glass.

“To our early resolutions,” I say.

She tilts her head in a nod, we tap our glasses together and sip.

“What’s yours then?”

“To let go of the past,” I say quietly. “Completely. Entirely. And forever.”

She nods like she understands but she doesn't smile or acknowledge. Time elapses between us with nothing to fill it, no motion, no sound bar the bubble of the witch’s brew and the clink of glasses as they hit the counter. It turns out that it’s bolognaise sauce that has had double the ration of toe of frog. I could well believe it too if I didn’t taste one of the meatballs for myself. I am in no way reluctant to admit that Carolyn is a stunning cook. It surprises me a little at first but, like so many things with Carolyn, it makes sense when you reflect on it.

“I’m surprised you came,” she says, perfectly timing it with my mouthful of spaghetti so my powers of reply are hindered. “I would have thought you’d be out somewhere.” I know for a fact she doesn't think that. And she knows I know. Is she trying to bait me? Has she had too many G and Ts?

“Not at all, it’s always nice to see you away from MJN.”

She snorts and drinks some more. I don't know where this conversation is heading. I’m not sure I like it.

“You’re looking terrible.”

“Charming.”

“No it’s true.” She looks me dead in the eye. “After the heart attack last year...”

“It wasn’t a heart attack.”

“After the whatever it was last year, Douglas, I hope you are taking better care of yourself. Lord knows I can’t afford to lose another pilot.”

“No.” I try for bitter, I think I just achieve sad. “You probably can’t now you have to pay someone a normal pilot’s wage.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“No? What did you mean?”

She sighs, whether in frustration or contrition, I don't think I care.

“It’s only normal.”

“What is?”

“To not be sleeping properly. You were with Martin for so long.”

“Did you lose sleep over Gordon?”

“Douglas, you know that was completely different.” I look back to the spaghetti that I’ve been absently pushing around the plate with my fork. I feel like a love-sick twenty year old. I still my hand. “It’s hard, being alone.”

“I’ve done it before,” I say, thinking, yes, it is.

“Yes, you have. Never for very long though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, how long was it after your first divorce before you found someone else? Your second ended because you were having an affair.”

“Yes, and the third ended because she was.”

“And how long was it after Helena that you fell into bed with Martin?”

I don't answer and it isn’t because she has a point, she categorically does not, it’s because I’m calculating. It was almost a year I think before we considered ourselves a couple. God knows how long he’d been in love with me before that. I’m not sure how long I had been in love with him. When he asked, I told him that the first time I said ‘I love you’ was two weeks after I realised how much I loved him. He smiled, didn’t seem surprised and kissed me. Another example of how good a liar I am. I had loved him for so much longer than that.

“Douglas,” she slurs. I think she slurs anyway. She wouldn’t be talking like this if she wasn’t at least a little bit drunk. “Isn’t it a good thing that you and Martin never married? Wouldn’t he have just ended up as ex-Mrs. Richardson number four?”

“What? Is that what you really think, after all this time? You think that Martin was just, what? What do you think we had, Carolyn, just an illusion of love? Is that what you think?”

“No, of course not. I know you loved him, Douglas, believe me I do. But...well...he wasn’t unique was he?”

“He was to me.”

“So he was the love of your life then? _The_ one, who you’d spent your whole life searching for?” I can’t answer, no words will come. The whole English language seems to have deserted me. “Come on, Douglas, I know you.”

“No. No you don’t, Carolyn, not as well as you thought anyway. I loved Martin, more than anything. We were together for ten years and if he hadn’t died we’d still be together.” She looks at me almost with pity. “And who are you to talk?” I spit venomously. “Who are you? What was so real about your relationships? What about Gordon, how long did he last, and the first one, I don't even know his name!”

“Douglas.” She puts her fork down with a clatter and stares at me sternly.

“I loved him, Carolyn.” I think I’m pleading with her. I think I’m pleading with her to understand, to see that it was different with him. It was so utterly different. “I wanted to get married,” I say weakly. “I wanted to but...he said that he looked at my past and didn’t want any of that. He just wanted me, and we didn’t need a piece of paper to be the portent of doom, we can do that ourselves.”

“I know.”

“He forgot to change...”

“I know. I know.”

She reaches her hand out to cover mine.

“You will have someone else. You will because you are you, Douglas, not because he wasn’t important. He wasn’t your last love, even if a large part of you wants him to be. That’s all I’m saying.

It isn’t and it wasn’t, there was something else, something that she isn’t telling me and I can’t...it niggles away under my skin, the need to know everything, to have all the facts.

“You’re only here because you lost him,” she says suddenly.

“I don't...”

“After you two became...whatever you were, we hardly ever saw you. It was like you were in your own little world. Then suddenly you come running to my door, bawling your eyes out. And now you’re here. But I’m right, aren’t I, soon you’ll find the next object of your affections and you’ll only come back here when that goes tits up.”

“Carolyn...At least you’ll have the gin for company.”

“Oh...go and take a running jump Douglas Richardson,” she laughs.

“You nearly had me there, I almost thought you were serious.”

“Oh yes? Was there a tear forming in your eye?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No, of course not.”

I look at my watch. Where has the time gone?

“I have to go.”

“Already? But we’ve been having such a good time.”

“I have to.”

“Stay. Talk a little more.”

“You aren’t my therapist, Carolyn.”

“Good God no, you couldn’t pay me to do that.”

I laugh and shake my head as I rise from the table, leaving behind the remains of spaghetti and residue of orange juice.

“Besides, I don't think I have enough time left to resolve all of your problems.”

“You know what, Carolyn. Neither do I.”

“What are you doing this weekend?”

“Why, is there another opera you need to avoid?”

“Very funny. I was just thinking you could come over, keep me company while Herc and Arthur talk endlessly about pitch and tempo.”

“Delightful as that sounds,” I smirk, “I think I’m just going to be very quiet.”

“How unlike you.”

“Maybe.”

She walks me to her door and leans on the frame as I begin to walk away. I wonder if the wood is propping her up or if it’s all a clever ruse.

“We all miss him,” she calls out when I’ve started down the path. “Every day, don’t forget that.”

I look back at her.

“I won’t,” I promise solemnly and I turn away, seeing her wave out the corner of my eye and not hearing the door close, though I do listen for it.

 

Back home.

Once again.

At my desk with the gun in my hand.

I run a callused fingertip over the barrel, feeling for each individual particle. I scratch it with my fingernail, hearing the muted squeak. In my other hand, the grip scratches a little, though it’s been rubbed smooth by years of clutching in sweating, fearful hands. Hands like mine, I suppose.

Deciding that it’s best to approach this in the same way you would tearing off a plaster, I take a deep breath and raise the gun to my head.

“You’re late.”

His voice ringing out of nowhere.

 

 _“You’re late.”_

 _“Martin.”_

 _“You are late.”_

 _“By ten minutes.”_

 _“I don't care, Douglas, it’s our first date and you promised._

 _“I was...”_

 _“I don't want excuses. All I ever get from you is excuses.”_

 _“They are usually good ones though.”_

 _“Yes,” he begrudgingly admits. “They are.”_

 _“I’m sorry, Martin.”_

 _He sighs and stares up at me with big, trusting eyes._

 _“Yeah, yeah. Go buy me a drink and I’ll see if I can forgive you.”_

 

His voice echoes around the room.

I sit completely still, listening to his voice fade into Mrs. McDonald’s television and the loud music coming from across the road. Of all the lyrics that spill from that house the only word I hear clearly is ‘fuck’.

I put the gun on the table with a thud.

I leap up and run.

 

This is it. The bar. In all these years it hasn’t changed a bit, even the bartender is the same. After that first date, we started coming here fairly regularly. I think it was his way of reminding me about punctuality. And keeping promises.

I nod to bartender, Patrick, getting on in years now but good with a kind smile and listening ear. He goes to pour out my usual when the door opens. The human instinct, perhaps of always investigating sudden sounds coupled with the need to know who has entered the space you occupy in case a threat is posed, would usually have me turning my head, but today, I’m not interested. I slouch into my usual booth and close my eyes, letting my head fall backwards.

It may seem that my survival instinct is dwindling somewhat. Under the circumstances though, I don't think that it’s such an unfounded accusation. So why I’m here instead of in my study, I don't know. Hearing his voice again, loud and clear as a church bell, I just wasn’t prepared for it. The last thing I said to him before he went out in that fucking van that morning was don’t be late. The last thing he said to me was ‘yeah, yeah’.

It’s never ‘I love you’. It’s never ‘you are the most important thing in my life’. It’s never ‘I am so glad you’re here with me’ because we just don't say these things as often as characters in books and films and TV programmes do, we just don't. We say things like ‘make sure you’re home by ten’, ‘I’ll have the dinner on by six’ and ‘I will lie to my mother and tell her you’re ill shall I?’ because that is what life is. All at once, mundane and complicated. Painfully irritating and inexplicably wonderful. And we never say what we mean and we never tell the people we love how much they mean to us and we never know how much we will miss something until it’s gone.

And he’s gone now.

And like so many people, I don't know what to do about the fact that our last words were so ordinary and conveyed absolutely nothing about what our relationship was about. I’m not entirely sure what to do about grief. All the other breakdowns in relationships were because of something I did, or something they did and we amicably, or not so in some cases, parted ways and faced our future lives with some trepidation but mostly relief that the ugly chapter is over. I wasn’t ready to lose Martin yet, he should still be here with me and it isn’t bloody fair.

Hence today I suppose. All planned, I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. It’s just...for the first time in my life, I haven’t been living, life has been something that just passes me by and I can’t see my future. I decided that today would be different. And it still can be. I can finish the drink and go home and it’ll all be just according to plan.

“Hi.”

My eyes snap open. They see first the glass of brown whiskey spoiled, in my opinion by the addition of several large, square chunks of ice. Then there’s a hand resting on the table, slightly tanned, clipped nails, then a forearm, darker skinned, with thin, black hairs. They follow all the way up to the t-shirt sleeve, fraying, blue and then diagonally up to the face. To the eyes.

They are like emeralds, truly. A dark shade of green on the outer edges of the irises, blending effortlessly through lighter shades until the stark contrast of the black pupil. The spots of light dance across them as they would a gemstone, but his eyes are warmer than rock, and they glitter like damp grass.

“I thought you’d fallen asleep for a minute there,” he smiles. I look down into the dregs of my glass. “Do you come here often?”

My head is lifted and the eyebrow raised before I can stop them. It’s an obvious jest, slightly crude and well worn and he knows this, but that doesn't stop my lips trying to betray me with a smile.

“It’s a lot quieter here than in most places,” he continues.

“Yes, it is.”

I’m perfectly prepared for that to be all I say in this conversation but then he smiles and elegantly sips the whiskey and suddenly I’m reminded of what Arthur said today.

“So,” I begin more awkwardly than I’ve ever started a conversation. “What are you doing here?”

“Something Arthur said, actually.”

“Something cryptic yet profound?”

“Yeah. Does he do that a lot?”

“You’d be surprised.”

We chuckle together. It seems so effortless. I keep Martin’s face in the back of my mind, just so I’m not tempted to forget.

“Were you looking for me?”

“Maybe,” he says after a pause. “I don't know. I feel like my head is so full of crap, I don't really have anyone to talk to.”

Another one?

“I talked to Arthur a bit and he beamed at me and said he had the same problem sometimes and that you were the one to go to.”

“Did he now?”

“Yeah, I don't know why I thought it was worth a go, you haven’t said much to me since I joined MJN.”

“You...you joined under fairly inauspicious circumstances.”

“I know. I am sorry, for your loss I mean. It must be hard.”

“Losing anyone is hard. Bereavement was never supposed to be easy. Unless they were an enemy then it’s somewhat vindicating.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Well then, can you help me or not?”

“Hm, tricky, I’ll have to know the full details. What ‘crap’ is on your mind?”

“Well,” he smiles shyly, eyes on his glass. “I’ve just been thinking...about the future. I mean I failed my exams four times, I’m finally a pilot and...I’ve never told anyone this, Carolyn managed to negotiate me down below minimum wage.” He pauses, probably waiting to be mocked. “I mean I just wanted to fly and I needed a job.”

“There’s no shame in it.”

“No?” He looks up at me with wide eyes. I shake my head. “And I’m, well I’m nearly thirty-five with no partner of any kind, a practically non-paying job and...”

“Stop,” I whisper. How is it possible? Did Carolyn do it deliberately or does MJN attract captains like him. I wonder what his childhood was like, if it was like his was. I want to ask and at the same time I really don't.

“The past means nothing,” he whispers back, eyes getting watery. “It’s gone now, hopeless dwelling and the present is shite too.”

“Oh?”

“P-present company accepted of course.”

“Of course. What about the future then?”

“The future...what future? What if we have no future? We could get run over by a bus tomorrow or blown up by terrorists.”

“Then death is our future.”

“I’m being depressing aren’t I?”

“You’re not being depressing, it’s true. Death may not be you’re immediate future, you’re still young, but it something we all have to face up to in the end. Death is the future we all share.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“If we aren’t particularly enjoying our present, there’s nothing to suggest that our future is going to be any better.”

“True. But then you never know. Like tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Meeting you here. Finally finding someone I can talk to.”

I stare at him intently and he shrinks a bit into the seat, still fiddling with his glass.

“Because...well actually I feel alone a lot of the time,” he admits fairly sheepishly.

“You do?”

“Yeah, always have. I mean-” He starts to get into full flow, coming out of his shell, “we’re all born alone, we all die alone, and while we’re here we are all completely sealed in the bodies we’re given. It’s strange isn’t it? That we can only see the world through our perception of it. I don't know what you’re really like, I just know what I think you’re like.”

“And what is that?”

He pauses.

“I always had a hunch, that you were a real romantic. That you lived your life through your connection to people.”

“Can you still be a romantic with three divorces behind you?”

“The past is the past, after all.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“Everyone says that as you get older you’ll have all these wonderful experiences like it’s such a great thing in life.”

“Oh well that’s bollocks.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely, I’ve just more childish as the years have gone on, just ask...” I swallow. “Just ask Carolyn.”

“I think she’s a biased witness,” he says lightly.

“You know...I don't think this is a conversation we should be having in a pub.”

“No?”

“No. Makes us look like depressives and may turn us into ones.”

“Where to then? Your place?”

“Why not?”

“Why not,” he echoes.

We get up, he downs the rest of his whiskey and I follow him as he exits.

There’s a park on the way back to my house. Going into it at all at this time of night is probably too reckless but at the moment I feel almost invincible and I think Mark does too.

“Let’s climb that tree.” He points to the main feature of the park, a large oak with thick limbs and a strong trunk. There are hardly any leaves left on it. Just two, both coloured a gentle red hanging on to branches near the top.

“OK,” I say without hesitation.

“Really?”

“Why not?”

“I was just...I was just testing, to see if you would actually agree to it, to see if you meant it about being childish. To see if you were full of shit.”

“Well I wasn’t. What about you.”

He smiles brightly. “No.”

We run to the tree, childish exuberance and impatience coming back to us like a distant memory. He steps on one of the protruding knots on the trunk and hoists himself up to a stable low hanging branch.

“Let me help you.”

He reaches a hand out for me and I grip it. It’s clammy, slick but warm. I smile up at him. As soon as I’m safely up on the first branch, he grins and takes off up the tree like he was born to do it. His lanky limbs work perfectly with him and he is so free. I watch in bemusement until he calls down to me then I follow him, testing each branch as thoroughly as I can before I step on it.

A turn of my head at a sudden noise and suddenly I see what every child who has ever climbed this tree must see: the town. You can see it even from this tree, all lit up with orange and yellow lights. A sea of twinkling, like a reflection of the stars. And it looks so beautiful. And I wish Martin could see it. I take a step before I realise I’m doing it and the branch snaps and I clutch at another branch tightly and then Mark is right in front of me.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

“I think that’s enough for now.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Well I’m cold. Let’s go.”

He jumps down and lands like a gymnast. I lumber on, eyeing each tree limb with suspicion and eventually land back on terra firma with a bit of a bump.

“You’re bleeding.”

I put my hand to my forehead and it comes away wet. I examine my fingers and the coating of dark liquid that looks black in the low light.

“So I am.”

“They shouldn’t let you out on your own,” he jokes. “You’re liable to get into trouble.”

“Oh I excel at it.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

 

We’ve arrived home. He is almost vibrating with adrenaline but I can’t help feeling a little bit tired.

“Right, we need to take care of that cut I think,” he decrees authoritatively.

I point him in the direction of the bathroom and sit heavily on my bed. I can hear rummaging, the cabinet that always sticks doing just that and then he’s back, armed with enough domestic medical equipment to perform minor surgery. He gently cleans off the cut with some antiseptic wipes I didn’t know I had, and then applies a plaster to it.

“Not quite the gallant war wound, but I’m sure from what I hear that you can embellish a good enough story to go with it.”

I don't reply and as he starts to pack everything away, his eyes stray to my bedside table where I left the picture of Martin on the beach. He stares at it for a while, eyes intent and shining in the light of the bedside lamp, then he straightens out and returns to the bathroom without a word.

“Would you like a drink?” I call to him.

“Water would be good, thanks.”

I go and pour him some and another for me and I turn to find him regarding me from the doorway. He takes his drink and sips delicately.

“It’s a lovely house.”

“Thank you.”

“I always used to dream about a place like this.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah. Just to be left alone, free to come and go as you please, answering to no one.”

“Try having neighbours. Is that really the sort of life you want?”

“Yes, I think it is. Unless...”

“What?”

“Unless someone special came along I suppose.” He blushes. “Then it wouldn’t seem so important.”

Neither of us say anything for a while. Perhaps nothing really needs to be said. We sip our water and catch each other’s eye, but Mark always looks away, blushing even more. The more time passes, the more comfortable we both seem and the more I keep dwelling until I just have to know.

“Why are you really here?”

“I...” He hesitates. “I feel like I can talk to you. Most people think I’m weird because I’m not obsessed with football, beer and women. But you...like Arthur said, you’re the one to talk to. And besides I was a little bit worried.”

“Worried?”

“I’ve only known you for five months but you were quieter than usual today.”

“What’s quieter than silence?”

“You were, don't ask me how. Arthur noticed it too.”

“Really...there’s nothing to worry about...” I feel so tired. “I’m...”

 

 _Water. I’m immersed in water, floating in it, completely suspended but not drowning. Everything feels so tranquil, there’s no sound and so much stillness. I wave my hand, then my leg, keeping movement to a minimum. I don't want to disturb the peace of this. But then my lungs start to ache. I can’t breathe after all, I thrash and kick and try to scream and water rushes into my mouth, tasting of nothing. I turn my face upwards, tilt my body forward so it aligns and kick with all I have and keep kicking. I climb higher and higher and higher until..._

 

I wake with a start, dazed and confused and...and in my own bed. What? What happened? Where’s Mark?

I walk almost blindly out into the living room and he’s there, it’s alright, he’s there on the sofa, tucked under a blanket, looking so peaceful. So young. His arms are bent strangely. He must be holding on to something. I go over to him, pull away the blanket a bit and the light flashes off the gun like a threat. I take a step back with a gasp, then when my senses return I carefully take the gun away from him.

The desk draw is open, obviously, and I replace the gun, turn the key in the lock and put it in my pocket. A light breeze draws my attention to the open window, surely I didn’t leave it open. I walk over and close it.

Outside I can see the moon, set high in the sky, coloured a wonderful light amber. It’s nearly full, its craters etched clearly in darker orange across its surface. Then there are the stars, so many and so bright all around. It’s rare to see them in towns, especially at this time of year. And I can’t hear a thing. Not a television set, not a rap song, not even the traffic. Just the wind blowing through the trees. It’s all so beautiful.

I walk back into the living room and smile at Mark as he sleeps. Gradually fatigue numbs my senses, it’s probably late. I make my way into the bedroom, casting a glance back at Mark as I do.

A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity.

When for a few brief seconds the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think.

And things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh.

I can never make these moments last. I cling to them but like everything else, they fade.

I have lived my life on these moments.

They pull me back to the present and I realise that everything is exactly the way it’s meant to be.

I sit down on the edge of my bed and smile contentedly. The picture on my bedside table draws my eye and I reach out for it. But...my arm’s gone numb...I can’t...I can’t feel it. Try again. I clutch at the wrist but nothing. Oh God. That pain. That tug in my chest that maybe...maybe this time it does have something to do with that cardiac episode last year. I try to call for Mark, I try to call for help but nothing comes...nothing works. Try and stand...God...a sharp pain in my head...must have hit the table as I fell...then that pain in my chest again.

There’s a loud tick in my ear.

And as I lie here on the cream carpet, a shape emerges. Soft footfalls sound with a shuffling gait and he’s here. Eyes glittering in the lamplight like fire, a delicate smile on his face, the one that only I ever saw.

He kneels down next to me, then leans and I can feel his lips on mine, warm, gentle and slightly damp. I look up at him and smile. I knew he wouldn’t let me die alone. Without us even talking about it, I knew I couldn’t die alone and he knew it too. I knew he wouldn’t let me die alone.

And just like that it came.

And just like that...


End file.
